


Workplace Woes

by Artemis_Dreamer



Series: Squishy MegOp [11]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Belly Rubs, Dessert & Sweets, Drabble, Fat Robots, Fluff, Food/Feeding Kink, I'm Going to Hell, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post War, Rated to be Safe, Twoshot, Weight Gain, Weight Issues, belly stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 12:52:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9608360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis_Dreamer/pseuds/Artemis_Dreamer
Summary: No, the rulers of Cybertron didn't technically need work schedules, or office hours, or any of that slag. As Rung had pointed out, however, routines and schedules were integral to maintaining order.---In which our favorite chubby mechs try to adapt to the workplace environment.





	1. Office Overload

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This is a work of fetish fiction, involving belly stuffing, unhealthy eating, and weight gain.
> 
> Don't like, don't read.

"Is your chronometer broken, or did you miss your exit?" Optimus asked dryly, not even bothering to look up from his datapad as Megatron entered their office. 

No, the rulers of Cybertron didn't technically need work schedules, or office hours, or any of that slag. As Rung had pointed out, however, routines and schedules were integral to maintaining order. Optimus took order very seriously, which is why it was completely unacceptable for Megatron to be nearly two cycles late. 

For Primus's sakes, they lived in shared quarters. They left those quarters within kliks of each other every morning. How was it even possible for his conjunx to be so incredibly late on such a regular basis?

"Which do you think, Prime?" Megatron smirked. It didn't matter which of those pathetic excuses Optimus was expecting this morning - both were lies.

Optimus exvented with irritation. Lately they had been playing this little game far too often. "Fine. It doesn't matter. Just get to work."

The warlord arched an optic ridge. It was rare for the Prime to surrender so easily, and it was equally rare for the Prime to try and order him around.

Megatron lumbered over to his desk, one servo cradling his swollen chassis. Primus, he'd taken in far too much fuel this morning. There was no way he'd be able to keep his processor on his work. It would take a miracle just to stay online.

The warlord silently cursed his Third. Over-fuelling invariably exhausted him, and Soundwave slag well knew it. Hopefully, Optimus would be too caught up in redundant paperwork to notice.

"Megatron." The disapproving tone of the Prime's voice was enough to freeze his conjunx in mid-stride. "You're not capable of working in this condition."

Frag it all, Optimus had already noticed. "Answer me honestly," he insisted. "Why were you late this morning?"

Megatron bristled with annoyance. First the Prime had the gall to order him around, and now he was demanding information about matters that didn't concern him. 

When the warlord spoke, his tone was smug and dangerous. "Unlike you, Soundwave understands how to properly sate my appetite." 

That miserable little cube of mid-grade Prime had offered him this morning wouldn't have been enough to satisfy a minibot. So, he had gone to enjoy a proper breakfast before work, courtesy of his Third. 

A spasm of pain shot through his chassis. Proper may have been an understatement. 

Soundwave was unwaveringly dedicated in all respects, and as such had prepared a massive meal for his master. A massive, delicious meal that Megatron had been unable to resist devouring in its entirety. He had gorged himself on enough crisp apple turnovers, buttery croissants, and freshly-baked chocolate biscuits to satisfy five ordinary mechs. 

Now, it seemed that there would be consequences.

Optimus Prime had gone dangerously silent. His optics roamed the warlord's frame and came to rest on that bulging stomach.

"You spent all morning fuelling instead of working," Optimus summarized. "Is that about right?"

Megatron smirked the affirmative, settling heavily on his chair. He groaned as another spasm of pain immediately shot through his tanks. He was so incredibly full that it hurt to move.

"I see," the Prime's tone softened. "Allow me to help you with that." 

Optimus was in a state of mild shock. He had seen Megatron fuel to great excess, had seen just how much fuel Megatron could consume. What he couldn't fathom was what an enormous amount of fuel the warlord must have consumed to become so incredibly and painfully full. 

Forcibly keeping his cooling fans offline, Optimus drew his chair alongside Megatron's. Reaching out with gentle servos, he began to massage the warlord's swollen chassis. He rubbed in slow, soothing strokes, tracing broad circles across the painfully tight and overheated plating. 

Megatron leaned into the touch with a low groan. Every caress of his conjunx's servos was pure pleasure, bringing desperately needed relief.

Every time that Megatron had been late for the last twelve decaorns, he had been indulging in a breakfast fuelling at Soundwave's apartment. 

Today had been no different, save for the fact the masked mech had been experimenting with a new turnover recipe. Soundwave had made quite literally dozens of them in his attempts to perfect the recipe, and Megatron, hopeless glutton that he was, had managed to eat every last one.

Oh Primus, he hadn't been this full in orns. The feeling was incredible, the pleasurable agony of his tanks having been stretched to more than 276% capacity.

"I hope that you left room for lunch." It was the Prime's turn to smirk as he continued to massage the warlord's stomach. He had lost the battle with his cooling fans - his conjunx was sexy as all Pit like this - and they whined noisily as his frame temperature rose.

Megatron groaned at the mere thought of forcing more food into his achingly overfilled tanks. "You can't be serious."

He knew full well that the Prime was serious - nothing made the mech run hotter than watching Megatron gorge himself senseless. Kinky fragger. He also knew that, between the servos on his chassis and the smirking challenge in Prime's optics, he couldn't resist for long.

The agony would be worth it, if only to watch his conjunx come undone, to be reduced to a desperate puddle of charge at the mere sight of his frame. There was a good chance he could bring the Prime to overload with only visual stimulation.

Optimus was serious, and Megatron wasn't about to refuse the Prime's challenge. Never concede defeat to an Autobot. Never surrender. 

"There had better be doughnuts," the warlord smirked. Preferably those chocolate ones with the caramel glaze. His tanks growled at the prospect and he realized that even now, as full as he was, he could still consume more.

Yes, there was always room for doughnuts. And a chocolate bar or two. And hadn't there been a blueberry pie in the break room?

He could consume more fuel than the Prime could ever hope to imagine. He could bring the Prime through multiple overloads at the mere sight of his gluttony. He could revel endlessly in the Prime's indulgent caresses.

He could, and he did. 352% capacity was a new record.

So was six consecutive overloads.


	2. Furniture Foibles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This is a work of fetish fiction, involving belly stuffing, unhealthy eating, and weight gain.
> 
> Don't like, don't read.

Megatron swaggered into the office with a smirk on his lipplates and a half-eaten doughnut in his sticky servo.

"Your break is supposed to be a breem, not half a cycle." Optimus reprimanded his conjunx, glaring up from the datapad on his desk. Frankly, the Prime knew he was lucky that Megatron had returned at all – the warlord was decidedly opposed to the concept of a structured workday.

Megatron raised his free servo in a token placating gesture, knowing full well that his conjunx was merely stubborn, not actually angry. Nonetheless, he reached that servo into his subspace, procuring a large box of doughnuts and handing it across the desk to Optimus. He had long since learned how laughably easy it was to manipulate his Prime with fuel.

Optimus accepted the cardboard container with an appreciative nod. There may even have been a hint of a smile on his faceplates - a smile which promptly disappeared when the Prime actually opened the box.

"For Primus's sakes!" Optimus exvented with exasperation, slapping the warlord's outstretched servo. Megatron had already devoured nearly all of them – only three remained for the Prime. How in the Pit was his conjunx constantly so hungry and impatient?

It was frankly unbelievable – he had seen Megatron eat half a dozen plate-sized icing-slathered cinnamon rolls at breakfast, and breakfast had been less than three cycles ago.

"Hunger makes you irritable, Prime," Megatron chuckled, pulling another box from his subspace and presenting it to his conjunx. This one was full. 

Hunger? Prime wondered incredulously. He wasn't the least bit hungry, not after matching Megatron bite-for-bite at breakfast. In fact, it was only because of the warlord’s affectionate teasing that he had even taken in that much fuel. In his opinion, ordinary meals were not supposed to leave a mech painfully stuffed.

Stuffed with delicious pastry that had been dense and sweet and oozing with syrupy cinnamon, not to mention thickly layered with achingly sweet and sticky vanilla icing. His tanks gave an abrupt and traitorous growl at the mere memory of his indulgence. Well, maybe he was a bit hungry.

Megatron polished off the last bite of the doughnut he'd been holding, and snagged another from the mostly-empty box. Freshly baked like all the others, this one was chocolate with caramel glaze - his absolute favourite.

Smirking, Megatron crossed the office to his desk. Prime tried to be subtle about staring at his conjunx's obscenely large aft, watching as the malleable plating jiggled and rippled with each of the warlord’s lumbering pedesteps. His cooling fans spun up at the mere sight of it, his processor unhelpfully supplying memories of how wonderful that aft felt when squeezed playfully in his groping servos.

With a groan of satisfaction, Megatron carelessly flung his massive bulk down into his overworked office chair. An overworked office chair which had apparently decided to tender its resignation – the chair shuddered with protest and promptly buckled, collapsing into a heap of twisted metal and torn padding. 

In the ensuing silence, it was hard to say which of the two mechs was more thoroughly stunned - Megatron, at having been so unceremoniously dropped on his aft, or Optimus, at having abruptly realized just how big his conjunx really was.

In retrospect, the outcome seemed inevitable. The massive swell of Megatron's aft and thighs practically engulfed the wreckage, bearing the question of how the warlord had even fit into the chair in the first place. 

Recovering from his initial shock, Optimus couldn't help but chuckle a bit, genuinely amused by the warlord’s predicament despite knowing full well that he shouldn’t be.

Megatron glared dangerously at his conjunx, but remained silent.

"Now are you beginning to realize that your actions have consequences?" Optimus lectured, a small smile lingering on his faceplates.

Megatron merely rolled his optics, taking a massive bite of the chocolate doughnut in his servo. "Clearly a case of inferior workmanship," he retorted, his tone unconcerned.

Optimus gaped incredulously at such an uncaring sentiment as the warlord continued to eat. How in the Pit was his conjunx not the least bit embarrassed by the damage that his massive frame had caused?

"Don't look so jealous, Prime," Megatron smirked around another mouthful of doughnut. "Your chair will be next." 

It was the Prime's turn to glare dangerously. There was no way that he was even remotely as heavy as his conjunx. His huge, gluttonous conjunx, who was apparently possessed of no shame whatsoever.

Yes, unlike Megatron, he was actually aware of the concept of restraint. His chair would be fine, thank you very much. 

With an exasperated exvent, Optimus snagged a doughnut from the box that the warlord had brought him, and returned his focus to his datapad.

Not even two cycles later Megatron was abruptly proven right, when the Prime’s chair also collapsed into a heap of worthless scrap metal. 

This was followed by great deal of decidedly un-Primely swearing, mainly regarding Megatron's bad influence, and a great deal of un-Primely denial, mainly regarding how there was absolutely no way in Pit he'd gotten that big.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, he had.

All thoughts of continuing to work were promptly forgotten as Megatron crossed the room and settled his bulk onto the floor beside his conjunx. The warlord kneaded at the soft rolls of the Prime’s chassis and back plating, placating the flustered mech with comforting servos and murmured endearments.

In Megatron’s optics, his chubby little Prime was absolutely perfect.

Relaxing into the warlord's calming touch, Optimus decided that yes, he was very fortunate indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Megatron is completely, and I mean completely, shameless. Optimus is completely, and I mean completely, in denial.
> 
> Any and all feedback is appreciated.


End file.
